


Seasons to Cycles

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Character Study, Defection, M/M, Possible Spoilers, Post season three, Post-Series Pre-Movie, Pre-Movie, Rare Pairings, Semi Cross-factional relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Building bridges between Autobots and Decepticons requires small steps. Very small steps. Smokescreen makes the first move, and Knock Out responds in kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I intended to tackle this prompt and give it two pages, three at the most. Thirty pages later, it still has no smut, but I finally managed to finish it. It's the fic that wouldn't end. LOL. I wrote it before I watched the movie, btw, so it's not canon-compliant. It's also self-beta'ed

  
Rookies always got stuck with the scut work.   
  
He could've been a Prime but no, he'd chosen something else. He'd chosen this. Smokescreen wasn't bitter about it – mostly. Sometimes, though, he thought about what could have been and felt a twinge of regret. Then, he'd look up at the Prime he admired and that regret would wash away.   
  
He'd have been a terrible Prime anyway.   
  
Still, every time he walked through these doors, Smokescreen had to remind himself that he'd chosen this. He was the rookie and would be from now until forever, he lamented.   
  
“Dinner time, Con!” Smokescreen called out, rapping the back of his hand on the wall adjacent to the cell. The energy bars hummed and crackled.   
  
“Dinner? You've been around the humans too long,” came the ever-scathing response. Not that it stopped Knock Out from getting off the berth in anticipation of a refueling.   
  
Smokescreen grinned. “Hey, you're the one who wanted to join the winning team.” He wriggled the cube at the approaching 'Con. “Unless you don't want this?”   
  
Knock Out scowled. “I'll not be taunted by an overeager scraplet.” His very air radiated contempt even as he crossed his arms.   
  
“Suit yourself.” Smokescreen rolled his shoulders and turned away.   
  
These days, teasing their one and only prisoner was the most amusing thing to do. Megatron was dead, his minions scattered, and Soundwave wandered around in some alternate dimension. Tracking down Shockwave and Starscream had become an exercise in tedious searching. Smokescreen was bored out of his fragging mind!   
  
“Arrogant pitscrap!” Knock Out snarled, his vocals echoing in the otherwise empty brig. “Give me that energon!”   
  
Smokescreen paused, watching Knock Out sidelong. “Say please.”   
  
Gears ground in a horrendous screech of irritation. “Please,” Knock Out gritted out.   
  
“Now that's more like that.” Smokescreen turned back around and inputted his code into the panel, opening up a door-sized entrance in the bars, through which he handed the cube. “Drink up. It's a new blend.”   
  
Red optics gave him a glare, but Knock Out took the cube anyway. Mech knew better than to ignore energon when it was given. Two seconds after his first sip, surprise replaced much of the vitriol.   
  
Smokescreen's grin widened, smug. “See? Told you.”   
  
“How did you get this?”   
  
“Ratchet fixed up some kind of refiner for us. Tasty, isn't it?”   
  
“Tatsty,” Knock Out mimicked and huffed a ventilation with a rattle. “You sound like a squishie.”   
  
Smokescreen rolled his optics. “At least I don't have a rod stuck up my aft. You done?”   
  
“Don't rush me!” The Con took another long, leisurely swallow. Fragging narcissist.   
  
Smokescreen chuckled to himself. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a temper problem?”   
  
Knock Out's response was to chuck the empty energon cube at Smokescreen's helm. He caught it easily enough. This was becoming a daily habit after all.   
  
“When am I going to be free of this prison?” Knock Out demanded.   
  
“As soon as Optimus decides what to do with you. So just sit tight and behave like a good little Decepticon.” Smokescreen tucked the empty cube into an arm panel for later recycling.   
  
“He can't just leave me in here to rust!” Knock Out shouted as Smokescreen keyed the energy field back to full coverage.   
  
Smokescreen shook his helm. “Temper problems and impatient? No wonder you don't have any friends left.”   
  
Knock Out's optics cycle wide, his energy field filling the brig with a sharp flare, and he snarled. “Get the frag out, you ignorant.... Autobot!”   
  
Sheesh. Overreaction much?  
  
Knock Out spat more curses at his back and Smokescreen beat a hasty retreat, the sound of the Con's fury following him out. Their banter was nothing new so why would Knock Out get so fragged over a little jibe like that?   
  
He was such a drama queen, as the humans would say.   
  
“Since when did tormenting our prisoners become an Autobot policy?”   
  
Smokescreen startled at the unexpected voice, nearly leaping out of his plating. There, around the corner waiting for him, was Arcee. Her expression was unreadable but he got the feeling he'd once again failed at some test.   
  
“I was just...” Smokescreen sighed. There was no defense. “I teased him a little. He overreacted.”   
  
Arcee pushed herself off the wall. “Actually, I'd say that was mild.”   
  
“Huh?”   
  
“Remember Cylas? And Breakdown?”   
  
Smokescreen scratched at his chin. “The beat up mech I helped Bulkhead take down? What about him?”   
  
“They were friends.”   
  
“Oh.” Smokescreen shrugged, holding up his hands. “But that's not like it was our fault.” Why should he feel guilty that was ultimately the fault of the humans and the Decepticons?   
  
Arcee arched an orbital ridge at him. “No, but I doubt you taunting him about it helps.”   
  
“Tch.” Smokescreen grimaced. “That mech gleefully dug around in my gears. Like I should care about hurting his feelings.” He stepped past her, intent on dropping off the empty cube and seeing if he could find something useful to do.  
  
“I think Optimus would say different.”   
  
Smokescreen stopped. She was right, of course. Optimus would believe differently. See? This right here was why he would have made a terrible Prime.   
  
He scuffed the floor with a pede. “But--”  
  
“I don't like that hack medic any more than you, but there's such a thing as common decency. Trust me. I had to learn that lesson, too.”   
  
Oh, yeah. She and Starscream had this real hate-on for each other. Smokescreen seemed to remember something about that. Bumblebee had told him.   
  
He slumped. “I'll apologize.” Shame trickled through him.   
  
“You don't have to.” Arcee waved a dismissive hand. “Just keep a level helm in the future.”   
  
“No, I do. It's the decent thing to do, right?”   
  
Arcee smiled – smiled! – at him. Maybe he's finally breaking the ice with her? Yes? “You're learning, rookie.”  
  
“Maybe I'll lose that title, right?” His doors perked upward.   
  
She tapped his shoulder with a fist, a light chime of metal on metal ringing in the dark hall. “Keep working hard,” she said, and left him alone.   
  
Smokescreen resisted the urge to do a happy dance. But only just.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
“Sorry.”   
  
It was the first thing Smokescreen said after he keyed the bars open and thrust a cube of energon Knock Out's direction.   
  
Knock Out glared at him in return. This was going to be more difficult than he thought.   
  
“I mean it,” Smokescreen insisted and pushed the cube closer to the recalcitrant Decepticon. Or was it a trait of all medics to be difficult? “I went too far. Sorry.”   
  
“An Autobot apologizing to a Decepticon? Should I be looking for Unicron to rise again?” Knock Out asked in a dry tone. But he took the energon. Victory!  
  
Smokescreen huffed. “Do you ever not have a smart-aft comment?”   
  
Knock Out smirked. “No.”   
  
Smokescreen rolled his optics. “And you called me arrogant.” He watched as Knock Out popped open the cube and drank half of it. Curiosity ate at him, as it had for the past two days. “What was he like?”   
  
“You'll have to be more specific. I didn't go to the School of Autobot Obscurity.”   
  
Rargh.   
  
“Breakdown,” Smokescreen clarified. Because really, all he knew of the mech was that he once had a rivalry with Bulkhead and enjoyed smashing things with a hammer. “You guys were friends, right?”   
  
Knock Out made a face best described as disinterested. “Hardly.”   
  
Weird. But then, Cons didn't have friends so maybe Knock Out wouldn't admit it to an Autobot.   
  
“Lovers?”  
  
Knock Out choked on the last drink of his energon, dribbling it down onto his chestplate. He even had to cough it from his filters, and pulled out a cloth from who knew where, using it to wipe away the mess with a baleful glare Smokescreen's direction. Mech hated to get dirty.   
  
“No,” he said. “You ignorant Autobots and your definitions. Must everything fit into narrow categories?”   
  
Smokescreen gestured to the medic. “Honestly? I don't think there's a single category in the whole world for you.”   
  
Knock Out's optics lit up. He all but preened. “Of course not. I'm a one of a kind, unique construction.”   
  
Wow. It didn't make much, did it?   
  
Smokescreen bit back a laugh. “And so modest.”   
  
“You're one to speak.” Knock Out thrust a finger his direction, pointing at his armor. “I've never seen a flashier paint job.”   
  
“Thanks.” Smokescreen grinned, planting his hands on his hips. He was proud of his new paint.   
  
“That wasn't a compliment.”   
  
“Was to me.”   
  
Knock Out stared at him for a long moment. “You're exhausting,” he said finally and thrust the empty cube at Smokescreen. “I'm done.”   
  
Smokescreen tucked the cube away. “So am I forgiven?”   
  
The medic turned from him, waving a hand over his shoulder. “You must be a special kind of moron.”   
  
Chuckling, Smokescreen took his leave. Yeah, he was forgiven. Sweet. This half-friendly bantering with Knock Out is almost more fun than needling him. Maybe Arcee had a point.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
“I hear you like to race.”   
  
Knock Out didn't so much as look up from the datapad he was paging through. “Your point?”   
  
Smokescreen wiggled his doors, upper tires starting to spin. “I bet I'm faster.”   
  
The medic barked a laugh. “Hah. With that alt-mode, I doubt it.”   
  
The chair beneath Smokescreen creaked as he rocked it back and forth, his arms crossed over the back of it. “I'm faster than I look.”   
  
“Which is no accounting for taste. I'm fast and I look good.”   
  
Amusement rose up before Smokescreen could think otherwise. “Anyone ever tell you that you have an ego problem?”  
  
“Anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?” Knock Out's optics flickered toward him in a sidelong look. “A Decepticon would've pounded that out of you by now.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I'm an Autobot. We don't beat on our allies.”   
  
“And yet, you have no problem imprisoning them in this cesspit.”   
  
Smokescreen arched an orbital ridge. “Your cell is hardly a pit in Kaon. And not everyone's loyalty is as flexible as yours.”   
  
Knock Out flicked off the datapad, sitting up on the berth. “It's called survival, Autobot. I'm not offlining for a cause that's been dead for vorns.”   
  
“Smokescreen.”   
  
Knock Out cycled his optics. “What?”   
  
Smokescreen unfolded one arm, gesturing to himself. “That's my designation. Might be nice if you used it.”   
  
“What's the point?”   
  
“Brr.” Smokescreen effected a fake-shiver. “You're cold.”   
  
Knock Out rolled his optics, irritation rolling off his frame in waves. “There you go again with that human talk.”   
  
“Their language is interesting. Much more expressive than ours.” Smokescreen pondered. He kind of missed Miko and Jack and yeah, Rafael. They were pretty fun to be around. He ought to visit them the next time Optimus needed someone to make a delivery to Ratchet.   
  
Knock Out snorted disbelief and pulled out that mysterious cloth of his again. He started swiping it over his frame, though the dirtied scrap did little more than smear the grit caked on his armor, and the scuff marks in his paint.   
  
Knock Out had this thing about being unclean. Even Smokescreen had noticed that much.   
  
“That's not helping,” he commented needlessly.   
  
“I'm aware of that.” Knock Out's reply was biting. “It's better than nothing. You've ruined my paint for life as it is. Fragging Autobots.”   
  
Smokescreen tilted his head, considering. Common decency, Arcee had said. Wise femme.   
  
He got up from his chair and keyed open the cell, letting all the bars drop this time.   
  
Knock Out startled at the unexpected action, and the silence that followed when the constant drone of the bars were gone. “What are you doing?” he demanded but Smokescreen did not miss the way he subtly shifted to a defensive stance.   
  
Did he think Smokescreen was going to attack him or something?   
  
“Come on.” Smokescreen didn't enter the cell, only called Knock Out to him. Mech was acting awful skittish. “There's a washrack around the corner.”   
  
Knock Out stared at him again, that same stare that indicated how little he thought of Smokescreen's intelligence. “Are you glitched?”   
  
Primus help him. “Do you want to be clean or not? I hear grime in your hydraulics makes this awful--”  
  
“I'm coming!” Knock Out interrupted, but he didn't move. “Aren't you afraid I'm going to escape?”   
  
“And go where? We're in a ship thousands of miles above the ground, one that's staffed by Autobots that outnumber you, I might add.” Smokescreen smirked. “Though it might be fun to watch you try. I'll even give you a five minute head start.” Good thing he'd had enough foresight to take off the phase shifter, otherwise it would have been a replay of his escape from the Nemesis, only with the players reversed.   
  
Not that Knock Out had anywhere to go.   
  
Knock Out huffed. “Then maybe you aren't a completely stupid Autobot.”   
  
“Thank you,” Smokescreen said.   
  
“Just an ugly one.”   
  
“Hey!”   
  
Knock Out smirked, the defensive stance melting away from his frame as he approached Smokescreen, holding out his hands. Smokescreen slapped a pair of energy cuffs on them; he had to have at least one preventive measure.   
  
“You didn't have to insult me,” Smokescreen said as he led Knock Out from the cell and down the hall, where there was a standard washrack.   
  
“No, I didn't have to. I chose to.”   
  
Figured.   
  
Smokescreen shook his helm and quickly sent a message to Optimus, informing him of his intentions. To his relief, Optimus sent his approval in return, rather than a chastisement. Ultra Magnus probably would have recited lists of rules he was breaking, but not Optimus. He was approving.   
  
Smokescreen grinned.   
  
He took off the cuffs, giving Knock Out a push into the washrack. “You got five minutes. Maybe ten since I'm feeling generous.”   
  
Knock Out flicked a rather rude gesture at him, one he had picked up from the humans. “Whatever you say, Autobot.”   
  
It amazed him how little true vitriol there was in their repartee. How had it come so quickly to this, a comfortable exchange of barbs that inspired humor rather than animosity? Perhaps that was why Optimus approved.   
  
Smokescreen folded his arms and leaned against the wall, waiting. Too bad Knock Out was a Decepticon, he mused. That mech had reason to be so arrogant. He was gorgeous.   
  
It was his personality that ruined the effect.   
  
Smokescreen laughed to himself.   
  
O0o0o  
  
“How much longer will I be forced to endure this indignity?”   
  
Another day. Another trip down to the brig. Another cube of energon successfully delivered. And another round in the ongoing battle of wits between he and Knock Out.   
  
Smokescreen shrugged. “That's not my call to make.”   
  
“Then get someone down here who can!” Knock Out demanded, pacing back and forth in the limited confines of his cell, agitation sleeking his plating.   
  
“No can do. Prime and Magnus are working their afts off to make Cybertron livable again,” Smokescreen said. When he got demanding like this, Knock Out was more irritating than amusing. Smokescreen's optical ridge twitched.   
  
“I could help, you know.”   
  
“Why would you care?”   
  
Knock Out whirled toward him, optics darkening. “Cybertron is my home, too.”   
  
Smokescreen rolled his optics. “Funny. That didn't seem to matter when you followed the guy who ruined it.”   
  
Oh. Where did that come from?   
  
Knock Out cycled a ventilation. “Autobots aren't innocent either.”   
  
“Only because the Cons forced our hands,” Smokescreen argued.   
  
Knock Out sneered at him, full of self-importance. “And it turned out so well for all of us, didn't it?”   
  
Something coiled within Smokescreen, an emotion he didn't dare name. “You can't tell me you're a victim.”   
  
“Of course not.” Knock Out flicked a hand dismissively. “I'm an evil, murderous Decepticon. Didn't you know?”   
  
The coil tightened into an incomprehensible knot. Where'd he get off making nice with the Decepticon anyway? “Yeah, I knew.”   
  
“I was being sarcastic,” Knock Out growled, stomping toward the bars, which crackled and hummed their warning at him. “Something clearly beyond your comprehension.”   
  
“I'm not stupid.” Smokescreen's fingers curled into fists. “You kidnapped the humans. Tried to take off Bulkhead's helm. And you would've killed Jack!”   
  
Knock Out's engine revved. “That was war. What do you expect?”  
  
“An Autobot would never stoop that low.”   
  
Knock Out burst into laughter, snide though it was. “Oh, really? Tell me again how pure Autobots are? How you didn't hesitate to put a bomb in poor Laserbeak. Or how a badly timed shot is all that saved a stasis-locked Megatron. Or how easily you used the spark extractor on our troops. Or maybe how virtuous you were when Prime destroyed the Omega Lock because he couldn't bear to let Megatron have it.”   
  
“That's not what happened!” Smokescreen shouted, and then had to draw back, cycle a ventilation. He couldn't let himself get worked up over a Con's words.   
  
Knock Out flicked a hand. “History is written by the victors, isn't that what your precious humans say? I'm sure Prime will cast his own spin on it.”   
  
Smokescreen whirled on a heel. “I don't have to listen to this.”   
  
“Why not? Is it an inconvenient truth?”   
  
“This coming from a mech whose only loyalty is to himself!” It was Smokescreen's turn to sneer, distaste raging inside of him. “But what could we expect from a Con?”   
  
“I want to survive!” Knock Out shouted, actually shouted, his vocals ringing in the quiet of the brig. “What would an Autobot Academy brat know about that kind of desperation? You who never had to struggle for anything. Not shelter. Not energon. Not a scrap of attention!”   
  
Smokescreen paused, looking at Knock Out, whose plating was vibrating from the force of his emotions that Smokescreen wanted to name anger but suspected he'd only be half-right.   
  
“The Decepticons were going to win!” Knock Out snarled. “They should have won! And I wasn't going to end up in the scrap pile. What would you know about that?”   
  
His optics flared. His ventilations came in sharp bursts. And Smokescreen realized that, for the first time, this was an honest reaction from Knock Out. Something beyond the taunts and the narcissism and the pride.   
  
“I'll see if Optimus can spare a few minutes,” Smokescreen said, and he took his leave, without waiting to see if Knock Out had anything else to say.   
  
That squirming in his internals refused to go away. He needed to think.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
“You're spending an awful lot of time in the brig, rookie,” Bulkhead said as he invited himself to a chair beside Smokescreen.   
  
He hunched over his energon, sliding the cube back and forth between his hands. “Got nothing better to do. Might as well be useful.”   
  
“We could use you out there.”   
  
“Doing what? Patrolling a wasteland?” Smokescreen's engine rumbled.  
  
Bulkhead shrugged, sending a rattle across his plating. “It's something.”  
  
“It's boring.”   
  
“And our prisoner isn't?”   
  
That was a bridge Smokescreen did not want to cross. He opted for silence instead, slurping down his energon with fake enthusiasm.   
  
“Oh, boy.” Bulkhead rumbled a sigh, shaking his helm. “Look, kid. Knock Out might've surrendered, but that doesn't mean he's harmless. He'll stab you in the back as sure as he would in the front.”   
  
Smokescreen straightened. “So Optimus isn't serious about letting him join?”   
  
“He's serious. But I won't go so far as trusting Knock Out just yet.” Bulkhead thumped a fist lightly against the table. “That mech only looks out for one thing – himself.”   
  
Smokescreen went back to skating his cube across the table's surface, contemplating as he had for the past twenty-four hours. “Is that so wrong?”   
  
“Huh?”   
  
He looked at Bulkhead. “To want to live?”   
  
Bulkhead cycled his optics before he rolled his shoulders. “Depends, I guess. For me, I'd rather die than abandon Optimus. But for Decepticons, maybe they don't feel that loyal to Megatron. Can't say I blame them.” He drained the last of his energon, setting the empty cube on the table.   
  
“Nobody really had a choice, did they?” Smokescreen asked, thinking back to the beginning of the war, what he'd missed, what choices he'd made and the things he thought he'd left behind.   
  
Bulkhead paused in the midst of standing. “Choice?”   
  
“We only had two options,” Smokescreen said, holding up a hand and ticking them off his fingers. “Autobot or Decepticon and once the dust cleared, there wasn't much room left for switching sides.”   
  
Bulkhead pushed the chair back under the table. “There were some. Back in the beginning,” he said, one finger scratching at his chin-guard.   
  
“Since then?”   
  
Massive pedes scuffed against the floor, a classic shift of discomfort. “A few.”   
  
In other words, not many that defected and were accepted. Smokescreen wasn't sure he wanted to ask for the exact number.   
  
He finished off his cube.   
  
“Scrap, I gotta go,” Bulkhead said, backing away. “I promised Miko I'd send her a message.”  
  
Bulkhead all but ran from the breakroom, moving rather fast for a mech his size, and Smokescreen watched him go. He stood up, dumped his and Bulk's empty cubes into the recycler, and stretched out some kinked cables in his back.   
  
Time to go see Optimus.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
He found Optimus and Ultra Magnus on the bridge, a sight which never failed to impress him, considering this had once belonged to the Decepticons. His commanding officers were talking over some schematics, probably future plans for their reconstruction of Cybertron with their now-mobile Omega Lock. That is, once and if Ratchet ever figured out Shockwave's half of the equation.   
  
Smokescreen snapped into a salute. It never hurt to play the perfect subordinate with Ultra Magnus, even if Optimus didn't require all that ceremony.   
  
“At ease,” said Ultra Magnus.   
  
“Thank you, sirs.” Smokescreen dropped his hand. “Uh, Optimus, you got a minute?”   
  
They exchanged glances but Ultra Magnus inclined his helm. “If you'll excuse me,” he said, and left the bridge.   
  
“You have the floor, Smokescreen,” said Optimus, the screen in front of him beeping as it cycled through a number of images.   
  
“Right, uh...” Now that it was here, Smokescreen felt like a rookie all over again. Oh, well. Best go for it anyway. “It's about Knock Out. It's been months. How long until you let him out of the brig?”   
  
“Tomorrow.”   
  
Smokescreen startled, rebooting his audials. “What? Really?”   
  
Optimus touched something on the screen, pausing the playback. “Yes. I have waited long enough.”   
  
“Waited? What for?”   
  
“For someone to ask me to release him.” Optimus lifted his gaze to Smokescreen, something like approval dancing in his optics. “Someone other than myself.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
“If there is any hope for Cybertron and her people, then I cannot be the only one who believes a Decepticon can change.” His focus dropped to the screen, fingers tapping over the data.   
  
And that was why there could only be one Optimus Prime.   
  
“That makes sense.” Smokescreen shifted, a new though occurring to him. “How long would you have waited if no one spoke up?”   
  
“As long as it took.” Optimus paused. “I trusted that my Autobots would make the right choice.”   
  
Smokescreen cycled his optics. “Wow... Thank you, sir.”   
  
“Thank you for proving my trust.” Optimus lifted his gaze, establishing that Smokescreen had his full attention. “Was there anything else?”   
  
“No, sir.”   
  
Smokescreen saluted him again and excused himself, internals squirming with something like glee. Somehow, having Optimus' trust was worth his weight in energon. When it came to things like that, Smokescreen was ever more certain that he'd made the right decision. Cybertron could have used the Omega Lock, but her people needed Optimus Prime's leadership more.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
The bars dropped with a dull drone, leaving a silence in the brig, one Knock Out was quick to follow with several loud bursts of ventilation and satisfaction.   
  
“Finally!” he exclaimed, stretching his arms over his helm and twisting his torso to the left and right. “I thought I would rust away in there!”   
  
Smokescreen folded his arms, amused as always by Knock Out's theatrics. The medic didn't seem to be bothered by their last conversation, as high-strung as it had been.   
  
“You could thank me, you know,” he said.   
  
Knock Out smirked, rolling his helm and easing the kinks from his neck. “Why waste the breath?”  
  
“And you mocked me for human phrases.”   
  
Knock Out planted a hand on his hip, waving the other in dismissal. “Sometimes, they suit.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Ah, what do do with my newfound freedom? A wash? A wax? A wash and a wax?”   
  
Smokescreen rolled his optics. “Don't you think about anything else?”   
  
Knock Out grinned, turning toward Smokescreen and giving him a look from helm to pede. “Occasionally.”   
  
...What?  
  
Smokescreen coughed on a ventilation. “Ahem. No wash and wax for you. I'm supposed to show you where you're going to work.”   
  
“Work?” Genuine horror infected Knock Out's tone as he reared back. “I'm a medic not a... a Constructicon! I don't do manual labor.”   
  
He looked so affronted that Smokescreen started laughing. He couldn't help myself. Offense was written into every tense plating on Knock Out's frame.   
  
“Stop laughing!” the medic growled.   
  
“I can't help it.” Smokescreen grinned. “You're going to the medbay, Knock Out. Ratchet's still on Earth and rumor has it, you have some skills as an actual medic.”   
  
“Well, yes, I do get by.”   
  
“Good. Then that's how you'll be useful.” Smokescreen chuckled again.   
  
“That's it?” Knock Out swiveled his wrist. “A few months in a brig and now I'm free to go?”   
  
“Not exactly.” Ultra Magnus would have gone into shutdown if such a thing had been allowed.” Smokescreen jerked a thumb toward himself. “Say hello to your parole officer.”   
  
“My what?”  
  
Smokescreen snickered. He couldn't decide which was more outraged: the first indignation over his expected assignment or this more recent one.   
  
“We're going to be spending a lot of time together,” Smokescreen said, giving the Con playful jab to the side with his elbow.   
  
“Primus help me.” Knock Out palmed his face. “Can I just go back to my cell?”   
  
“You can do that. Or you can sit through my tour and then show me what you got.”   
  
“Eh?”   
  
“I seem to remember a challenge being issued.” Smokescreen poked Knock Out's chestplate, between his headlights. “Do you think you can't beat me?”  
  
Knock Out batted his hand away. “I can outrace you anytime, anywhere.”   
  
Ah, there was that arrogance Smokescreen had been missing.   
  
“That's what I thought you'd say.” Smokescreen gave him a thumbs-up. “Challenge accepted.”   
  


o0o0o

  
  
He was at it again.   
  
Smokescreen hovered in the doorway, watching Knock Out as he typed away at the medstation console. He couldn't access anything of sensitivity, Ultra Magnus had made sure of that. So what was Knock Out looking at? Or for?   
  
“Rise and shine, Knock Out!” Smokescreen announced, making his presence known.   
  
The screen went dark with a hasty swipe of Knock Out's pointy hand.   
  
“I'm up,” the medic said with a scowl tossed Smokescreen's direction. “Must you make so much noise every time you retrieve me?”   
  
“It's part of my charm.” Smokescreen's optics slid to the monitor before he looked at Knock Out again. “Ready for some energon?”   
  
“Give me a moment.” Knock Out turned back toward his quarters.   
  
“You're not sulking over that loss, are you?” Smokecreen called after him, subtly creeping toward the abandoned station.   
  
“That wasn't a loss!” Knock Out shouted back. “You cheated!” The door slid shut behind him.   
  
He had a minute, maybe two. Smokescreen approached the console. A few quick key presses and he had it powered up and accessing the last user's activity.  
  
Breakdown. Knock Out's been accessing Breakdown's medical files and general files. Smokescreen had wondered what actually happened to the mech.   
  
The details made him more than a little queasy.   
  
They also made him feel like an aft.   
  
Smokescreen turned off the monitor and the console, just in time for Knock Out to reappear, tucking a buffing chamois into his arm panel. “Let's get this over with.”   
  
Socialization, Optimus called it.   
  
Habituation, Ultra Magnus added.   
  
Whatever they named it, Knock Out taking energon in the break room first thing in the morning with all the other Autobots was mandatory. Knock Out hated it. So did everyone else.   
  
“This has become tedious,” Knock Out muttered, hunching his shoulders.   
  
“It's just going to take time,” Smokescreen said, and happened to notice the glare Wheeljack directed at them. “A lot of time.”   
  
“It didn't take you that long.”   
  
“Uh, yeah.” Smokescreen scratched his helm, beneath his chevron. “I'm an exception?”  
  
“I noticed,” Knock Out said dryly and with a pointed look around that made a shiver race across his plating.   
  
Awkward had yet to cover it.   
  
All he had was conversation to fill in the gaps. And with what he'd learned about Knock Out's recent computer activities, Smokescreen supposed now was as good as ever. He never realized he and the Con had this kind of thing in common.   
  
Smokescreen cycled a ventilation. “You know, before I sighed up for the Academy, I had a friend, Sideswipe.” He paused, tilting his head. “In fact, you remind me an awful lot of his brother.”   
  
“Your point?” Knock Out arched an orbital ridge.   
  
“He was in Uraya when the Decepticons attacked. I thought he was dead.” Smokescreen fiddled with his energon. “Until there were rumors that Shockwave was running experiments. Using civilian frames for his combiner attempts. Sideswipe wasn't a civilian, but he was dead.”  
  
The silence between them swelled but Smokescreen kept talking, because he thought if he did, Knock Out might start and maybe it would somehow bridge the gap. Maybe.   
  
“I don't know what name Shockwave gave that monstrosity, I just know what it looked like after two Autobot squads took it down.” Smokescreen swallowed down his energon, not tasting a drop of it. “So I know what it's like to see a friend become a monster.”  
  
Knock Out coughed a ventilation. “So you blame the Decepticons?”   
  
Smokescreen shook his helm. “I blame Shockwave.”  
  
“Yeah, I can see that.” Knock Out shifted on the chair, discomfort radiating from him. “He's not really a mech you like. Why'd you tell me that?”   
  
“No reason.” Smokescreen rolled his shoulders. Oh, he had a reason, but not one he'd admit to Knock Out. “Just thought it was about time you heard about me.”   
  
Knock Out gave him a long look, his lips curving upward. “I guess that makes us even.”   
  
“It's a start,” Smokescreen said and he rose to his feet, snatching up his empty cube and Knock Out's. “Come on. We got work to do.”   
  
The rest, he supposed, would fall in place on its own.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
“Ow!”   
  
Smokescreen couldn't decide what was worse: getting his aft kicked by Bumblebee, or getting his aft kicked by Arcee. Both were equally painful, both reminded him of how much training he lacked, and both never failed to put him in his place.   
  
That Arcee could do it was a constant reminder to never overlook things that came in small packages. Then again, he should have remembered that anyway. Miko in the Apex Armor could do some serious damage.   
  
Reminder: never challenge her to a training spar. Smokescreen couldn't bear it if she kicked his aft, too.   
  
“Easy!” Smokescreen hissed, rolling his helm toward his tormentor. “I need that arm.”   
  
Knock Out smirked at him. “And if you want it returned to good condition, you'll keep still. Sparkling.”   
  
Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one getting his arm re-located. Lucky shot, Smokescreen wanted to call it, if only to save his dignity.   
  
Arcee apologized, of course. She didn't mean to use that much force.   
  
“How'd you manage this anyway?” Knock Out asked, the sound of a welder starting up filling the bay.   
  
“Training exercise,” Smokescreen offered truthfully, but that was all he was going to say about it.   
  
Knock Out chuckled. “Hmm. Why don't I believe you?”   
  
“Beats me.” Smokescreen's door panels wriggled. “And you better not sabotage me either.”   
  
“Sabotage?”   
  
“So you can win the next race, duh.”   
  
Knock Out tweaked something in his arm that made his whole body twitch. “I would never,” he said with an offended huff.   
  
“You say that now but when you're staring at my taillights, you might try something drastic.” Smokescreen grinned.   
  
“How was I supposed to know the engine you're hiding under that ridiculous paint?”   
  
“It's not ridiculous! It's stealth.”   
  
He all but felt the droll look Knock Out gave him. “I don't think any of you Autobots understand the concept of stealth. No wonder Soundwave found you so easily.”   
  
Smokescreen faltered on an argument for that. “Well, I'm still faster than you,” he said.   
  
“We'll see.”   
  
“And prettier.”   
  
Knock Out burst into laughter. “Now you're pushing it, rookie.” More tools whirled in and out of his hands as he worked on Smokescreen's arm.   
  
“I was seasoned enough to outsmart you, wasn't I?” Smokescreen waggled his optical ridges. “How did you get out of that wall anyway?”  
  
Mortification colored Knock Out's energy field. “That was a lucky shot,” he declared. “And I'd rather not talk about it.”   
  
Smokescreen chuckled. “I knew you had a flair for exterior decorating, but I thought that was crossing the line.”   
  
Knock Out swatted the side of his helm, more playful than painful. “Aft.” He huffed a ventilation. “Still, in the category of who humiliated me the most, the award goes to your buddies. They ruined my paint with that train.”   
  
“Mm. That I can believe,” Smokescreen said and turned his helm, giving a pointed look to his shoulder, which now looked less like a mess and more like a functioning joint. “How do you think I got this?”  
  
Knock Out turned away and came back with Smokescreen's arm, the end of which had also been repaired. “I figured you challenged someone out of your league. Then again, I suppose that is every Autobot on board.”   
  
“Hey!”   
  
The medic laughed. “Now hold still. Else I might re-attach it backward.”   
  
“Is that even possible?”   
  
“You'd be surprised.”   
  
There was a click, an eerie sensation of his frame and his arm syncing up, and then an absence of that feeling of missing something. Smokescreen had felt off-balance the whole time, but now, he felt great.   
  
“And done,” Knock Out announced, stepping back to dust off his hands.   
  
Smokescreen rolled his shoulder, testing his arm and hand by clenching and unclenching. Full mobility, no pain, and smooth sailing. “So you are. I knew there was a real medic buried under all that 'Con posturing.”   
  
Knock Out rolled his optics. “You know, a thank you wouldn't be out of order.”   
  
“It's your job!” Smokescreen chuckled. “But thanks.”   
  
“Whatever.” Knock Out headed back to his workstation and an array of gadgetry that he was working on, probably trying to outdo Ratchet in some way. “Don't you have work to do?”  
  
Laughing, Smokescreen leapt off the table and stretched his arms above his head. “Yeah, yeah. I'm going.”   
  
He got to the door before he paused, looking back at Knock Out. “You made plans for energon tonight?”  
  
The medic cycled his optics. “Oh, yes,” he drawled. “This ship is filled with Autobots clamoring to spend time with me. Too bad for you.”   
  
“That's what I thought.” Smokescreen tapped his fingers against the door panel, debating for all of a second. “I got a few cubes of high grade. I might be gracious enough to split them with you.”  
  
Knock Out arched an orbital ridge. “Free of charge?”   
  
“Or you can consider it payment for the arm.”   
  
Flicking a hand at him, Knock Out returned his attention to the disassembled whatever-it-was. “Fine, fine. But I warn you, I'm not cheap.”   
  
“I noticed,” Smokescreen drawled and made his escape, hoping to have the last word for once.   
  
Knock Out's laugh followed him out the door.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
“Cheers.”   
  
Knock Out rolled his optics. “You and your human customs.” But he lifted his cube anyway, tapping it against Smokescreen's.   
  
Ignoring him, Smokescreen pulled the high grade toward his mouth, the scent drifting to his olfactory sensors. Primus, but Ratchet was a genius. His tank grumbled. His first taste of high grade in centuries.   
  
“Call him what I may, but Ratchet is not completely useless when it comes to energon,” Knock Out murmured over his own cube, his field betraying his respect.   
  
Smokescreen grinned to himself. Compliments were always grudgingly given by Knock Out, as if saying something nice went against some Decepticon code of honor.   
  
“Of course, he chose to stay on that planet, which doesn't say much about the state of his processor health,” Knock Out added.   
  
That he would then follow it up with this kind of comment was only par for the course, Smokescreen noticed. It annoyed the other Autobots but Smokescreen had gotten used to it. Knock Out was far more bark than bite.   
  
“I like Earth,” Smokescreen agreed. “But Cybertron is much better. I don't know what Ratchet was thinking.” He lifted his shoulders. “It's what he wanted though.”   
  
Knock Out huffed a ventilation. “The only thing good about that dirtball was the miles of empty roads. I could do without its inhabitants.”   
  
Smokescreen wondered if Knock Out was thinking about Breakdown and Silas and MECH. That could make anyone hold serious hate for the humans.   
  
“Whatever happened to him?” Smokescreen had done some research on his own time, but all the Decepticon database claimed was that Breakdown had been deactivated. There wasn't any information on Cylas other than his status as a consultant had been terminated.   
  
Knock Out drained his cube and silently requested another, which Smokescreen dutifully handed over. “Who?”   
  
“Cylas.”   
  
Knock Out flicked the cap on the sealed cube open, giving Smokescreen a long stare as though considering them. “I killed him.”   
  
“... Oh.” Well, what did Smokescreen expect? They'd seen no evidence of Cylas or Breakdown on the Nemesis and he doubted that thing would be wandering around Earth. “But he was your friend.”   
  
“That abomination was not my friend,” Knock Out retorted sharply, plating clamping tight around his frame. “And if you want to get technical, Airachnid killed him. Twice. I just provided the impetus.”   
  
“With no regrets?”   
  
Half the cube went the way of the first one, as though Knock Out intended to get overcharged and then some. “Starscream asked me that once.”   
  
Smokescreen sat up a bit straighter. Easy to get Knock Out to talk or rant or mutter about Breakdown. Not so easy to get him to chat about the others. “And?”   
  
“None.”   
  
“But--”  
  
“That monster was not Breakdown. He had Breakdown's frame, yes, but Breakdown never would have let himself look like that.” Red optics flared a deeper shade, Knock Out's gaze locked on the distance. “He didn't have Breakdown's voice. He didn't have an energy field.”   
  
He drew up a leg, resting his arm across it. “He was not Breakdown,” Knock Out repeated, this time more like he was convincing himself. “So, no, it didn't bother me. I don't feel sorry for what I did and I don't regret it. Cylas deserved every second of pain he got.”   
  
Once upon a time, Smokescreen would have been horrified by that confession. Months ago, when Knock Out was still a resident of the brig, Smokescreen would have headed straight for Optimus and argued that they never release their Decepticon prisoner.   
  
Now?   
  
Smokescreen realized there was a lot he didn't know, didn't understand, and couldn't possibly fathom on his own. He was a rookie in every sense of the word. He couldn't fault Knock Out, not when he'd seen the results of Silas' experimentation and when he'd heard the anguish Bee had gone through.   
  
Silas was one human who deserved to get squished.   
  
“I promised to play nice with the humans and I will,” Knock Out said, redirecting his gaze to Smokescreen. “But I can't say the same for any slagger that tries to copy Silas and MECH.”   
  
“I'm with you on that one,” Smokescreen said, finally taking another drink of the high grade he'd all but forgotten about. “Though Optimus won't agree.”   
  
Knock Out rolled his optics, some of the tension bleeding out of his frame. “That optimistic fool believes the best of his worst enemies. Which is why that scout had to end Megatron. Prime would've never done it.”   
  
Knock Out's ventilations stalled and he whipped his helm toward Smokescreen, engine rumbling in reflection of his field spike. “And if you tell Prime I said that and get me shoved back in the brig, you'll come down with a nasty virus,” he threatened, poking Smokescreen in the chestplate.   
  
He grabbed Knock Out's hand without thinking about it, and then he didn't let go for reasons he didn't want to consider either. “I won't. Because I get it.” Besides, things spoken in confidence didn't need to be reported, right? He could always blame it on the high grade. Rookie mistake.   
  
Especially since Knock Out was vibrating so hard he was going to send his systems into a crash.   
  
“And I'll bet Breakdown's glad you made Cylas suffer,” Smokescreen continued, optics drawn to Knock Out's hand, about the same size as his own, but pointy rather than blunt. The very same hand that had once gone gleefully rooting around in his internals. “Just like Sideswipe would be glad we were the ones to take him down.”   
  
“Che. Autobot sentiment,” Knock Out muttered. “Like it matters anyway.”   
  
Smokescreen shrugged. “Maybe not for them, but for the ones left behind? Yeah, it matters.”   
  
He didn't let go. Why didn't he let go? Why was he turning Knock Out's hand over, admiring the articulation, the tinier gears that Smokescreen's own fingers lacked since he wasn't a medic. Why was he leaning closer, feeling the buzz of Knock Out's field against his own and not pulling away?  
  
Was it the high grade?   
  
Yeah, it had to be the high grade. Surely Knock Out's specially-blended wax didn't smell this good? And this couldn't be the first time Smokescreen noticed the sheen of his paint either. That Knock Out's field tickled against his, invitingly rather than dismissively, couldn't have had anything to do with it either.   
  
“You're an idiot,” Knock Out said, but it lacked his usual contempt.   
  
“Yeah, you tell me all the time,” Smokescreen replied and his spark did this weird, flutter thing, the more Knock Out leaned toward him, their faces intimately close.   
  
Oh, frag. What in the Pit was he doing?   
  
Smokescreen let go of Knock Out's hand, drawing back. “Slag,” he said, and rubbed a hand over his helm, scrambling to his pedes. “I forgot I had to do this thing. I mean. Uh. I got to go.”   
  
He whirled on a pede, making a fast track for the door, spark whirling in his chest. “Keep the high grade,” Smokescreen threw over his shoulder. Was that an apology? If so, it was a slag-poor one and he knew it.   
  
He scrubbed a hand down his face. Primus, that was close.   
  
Close to what?   
  
A bad idea, that was for sure. A very, very bad idea.   
  


o0o0o

  
  
He avoided Knock Out for a week, which probably wasn't a good idea in retrospect considering he was Knock Out's parole officer. Then again, Knock Out had been fitting in quite well, with no signs that he longed to return to the Decepticons. Oh, he had his moments of cutting insults and snide remarks, but Smokescreen had the feeling that was less Decepticon programming and more Knock Out's natural state of being. It wasn't like the Autobots were any nicer.   
  
Wheeljack could really lay it on once you got him going.   
  
And since Smokescreen hadn't heard of Knock Out disappearing or throwing himself off their warship for Cybertron's surface, Smokescreen figured all was well.   
  
Still, running away was cowardly and he was acting like an idiot. Smokescreen had to face the truth.   
  
He was attracted to Knock Out.   
  
There. He'd admitted it. Granted, only to himself, but it was a start.   
  
He liked a Decepticon – former Decepticon. He wanted to frag said former Decepticon. In fact, he kind of wanted to do a lot more than that.   
  
How had this happened? Primus sure had a unique sense of humor. From rookie to almost-Prime to lover of Con defectors. What was this world coming to?  
  
“Hey, rookie!” Bulkhead slapped him on the back, right below his door panels.   
  
Smokescreen lurched forward, struggling to regain his balance. Bulkhead might have considered that a light tap, but Primus, the big bruiser sometimes underestimated his own strength.   
  
He also had this habit of appearing out of nowhere? How did he do that?   
  
“Are you ever going to stop doing that?” Smokescreen asked, rolling his shoulders as he straightened.   
  
“Nope.” Bulkhead laughed, the sound echoing in the hall, and drew up beside him. “Guess you're relieved now, aren't you?”   
  
Smokescreen cycled his optics. “Huh?”   
  
“Getting to dump your babysitting job, that's what!” Bulkhead nudged him with an arm bigger than Smokescreen's thigh. “Don't tell me you didn't know.”   
  
Now he was really confused. “Know what?”   
  
Bulkhead gave him an odd look. “That Knock Out's going back to Earth. Apparently, he wants to work with Ratchet which works out for us since Bee's going for a bit, too. Lucky slagger.”   
  
Smokescreen swung out in front of Bulkhead and stopped dead in his tracks. “When did this happen?”   
  
“Yesterday?” Bulkhead scratched at his chin-guard. “You didn't know, I take it.”   
  
He was leaving? Knock Out was leaving?   
  
That coward! Like frag he was. No way was Smokescreen letting that 'Con get off this ship until they solved this little whatever it was.   
  
“I didn't,” Smokescreen said and his door panels hiked upward. “Wait! He hasn't left yet, has he?”   
  
“No, but--”  
  
He had time.   
  
Smokescreen whirled on a pede and dropped into alt-mode. “Thanks, Bulk. Catch ya later!”   
  
Tires screeched, leaving tread marks behind as he sped down the main hallway, passing by Ultra Magnus who looked as though he were working himself up to a reprimand. Not that Smokescreen would have heard it as fast as he was going.   
  
He made it to the medbay in record time, skidding in front of the door, slamming in his code, and bursting into the room.   
  
“What do you think you're doing?” Smokescreen demanded to the room at large, optics swinging left and right until he found Knock Out.   
  
“Packing,” came the succinct response. There was a dull thunk as Knock Out tossed something into a box he carried in his other hand.   
  
“Not what I meant and you know it, Knock Out.” The door slid shut behind Smokescreen, affording them an element of privacy. Except for the cameras, but Soundwave wasn't here to watch them.   
  
Knock Out huffed a ventilation. “I believe we've had this discussion. I don't read Autobot processors.”   
  
Smokescreen snatched the box out of his hands, shoving it onto a nearby table. “Why?” he demanded, approaching Knock Out and noticing that the medic backed away from him, until he was pinned between a desk and Smokescreen, whose arms bracketed him in, planted on the desk behind him.   
  
“Considering how you fled the scene of the crime, I didn't think you cared,” Knock Out said and there was a soft whine, that of defensive protocols initiating. But Knock Out wasn't attacking.   
  
“That was... I was...” Smokescreen shook his helm. “You make me lose my mind.”   
  
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Knock Out demanded, folding his arms over his chestplate.   
  
“Take it however you want.” Smokescreen leaned closer, their faceplates inches apart. “Fine. I admit it. I ran away. I was an idiot. But you're doing it, too.”   
  
Knock Out fidgeted, finding the far wall far more interesting than Smokescreen's face. “Your point?”  
  
“Stay.” Smokescreen cycled a ventilation to help calm his suddenly racing spark. “Stay and let's see where this takes us.”   
  
Knock Out's fingers rapped against his upper arm. “You're an idiot,” he said, but he turned his helm to face Smokescreen anyway. “And an Autobot and a fool.”   
  
Smokescreen grinned. That sounded like agreement to him. “Check your brand, medic. You're an Autobot, too.”   
  
“Che. Don't remind me.”  
  
Smokescreen chuckled. “That means you'll stay, right?”   
  
Knock Out rolled his optics. “Yes. If Prime allows it, I will stay.” He unfolded his arms only to grab Smokescreen's chin, preventing him from looking away. “And if you run away again, you'll find out the reason some mechs are afraid of medics. Understand?”   
  
“Loud and clear,” Smokescreen promised and leaned closer, in-venting the exotic scent of Knock Out's wax. “So can I help you unpack?”   
  
Knock Out smirked. “That has got to be the worst pick-up line I have ever heard.”   
  
Smokescreen engine gave an audible rev. “I could have gone for a more crude route but I figured you'd get offended. Guess I should have known better.”   
  
“Autobots,” Knock Out said with an audible ventilation. “Too polite for their own good.”  
  
His fingers tightened on Smokescreen's chin before he closed the minute distance between them, sealing their mouths together, chestplates bumping as a result. A kiss, Smokescreen realized as Knock Out's glossa flicked against his mouth. For all that he claimed to hate humans, the medic certainly knew how to emulate one.   
  
Not that Smokescreen minded. There was something oddly intimate about it, though nothing could compare to a dual-link. He shivered at the thought of one.   
  
“Now,” Knock Out said with a trademark smirk as he pulled back from the kiss. “I've some unpacking to do and I'll need to contact Prime. You, on the other hand, can find us some more of that high grade and meet me in my quarters later. Deal?”   
  
Smokescreen's door panels quivered. “Deal.”   
  
Inside, his spark tingled with anticipation. At the same time, his processor overheated with dread.   
  
Oh, Primus. He'd forgotten about Prime. And Magnus. They were the reason this was a very bad idea.   
  
Nothing left to do but face the music.   
  
He could claim it in the name of inter-factional cooperation. Right?   
  


o0o0o

  
  
The only way this could be worse was if Ratchet were standing here, too, staring at him with a painfully neutral expression while Smokescreen just knew there was outrage broiling beneath. Well, at least for Magnus. Optimus was probably a lot more understanding considering that whole whatever-it-was he had going on with Megatron. But Magnus? Not so much.   
  
Bulkhead and Wheeljack had rolled their optics, claiming they saw it coming, while Bulkhead demanded Arcee pay up on their bet. None of them were any help. Bumblebee held up his hands and said Smokescreen was on his own. Ratchet didn't know and Smokescreen thought to keep it that way as long as possible. Doc could make a mech feel mighty small when he put his mind to it.   
  
The silence was the worst part.   
  
And then Ultra Magnus audibly reset his vocalizer. “Soldier,” he began. “When we ordered you to keep an optic on our new recruit, this wasn't what we had in mind. I can think of at least three laws you are breaking at the moment, the least of them--”  
  
“Ultra Magnus,” Optimus interrupted, “I think that considering our current state of affairs, such outdated laws are the least of our concern.”   
  
Smokescreen twitched.   
  
“I didn't do it on purpose,” Smokescreen said, though kissing Knock Out, yeah, that had been on purpose. Falling helm over pedes for the former Decepticon? It had never been on the agenda. “It kind of... happened. But isn't it a good thing?” He smiled brightly, trying to pull off the shiny and eager rookie face that had helped him so often before.   
  
Unfortunately, it didn't work on Magnus. He sighed and pinched his olfactory sensor. “At least this explains why Knock Out retracted his request to transfer to Earth.”   
  
“Indeed it does.” Optimus pinned Smokescreen with a serious look. “He is aware that this.... relationship, has no bearing on his status amongst the Autobots?”   
  
“If he wanted that, he'd have been better off picking anyone but me,” Smokescreen retorted, and then seized up. Slag. He'd been spending too much time with Knock Out. He'd picked up on the mech's lack of respect of authority. “I mean, yes, sir.”   
  
It became Ultra Magnus' turn to twitch while Optimus looked amused.   
  
“Good.” Optimus traded a glance with Magnus, who waved a dismissing hand. “Very well. Short of separating you two, it is pointless to forbid such a relationship. And as you said, we are working toward building something greater here. This can be one step toward such a goal.”   
  
“However, you cannot continue as his keeper,” Ultra Magnus added. “It would be highly inappropriate.”   
  
Smokescreen nodded. “Of course, sir. I've been reassured that any of the other Autobots would be willing to take on the role.” Though Arcee had dragged him aside to threaten that she wouldn't cover for him if either of them snuck away when they were supposed to be on duty. Mortified, Smokescreen had vowed to never do so and then hoped Optimus wouldn't choose her.  
  
“Arcee would be best,” Ultra Magnus said, much to Smokescreen's horror. “But I find she is better suited for leadership. Bulkhead perhaps?”   
  
Optimus' optics glinted with amusement. “After Miko, he should find this task easy.”   
  
Even Smokescreen had to chuckle at that one. The little human was feisty and fearless, but she was also more than a handful. Smokescreen had never envied Bulkhead that guardianship.   
  
“Then we agree. Bulkhead will take over Knock Out's parole and Smokescreen will supervise the Vehicons,” Ultra Magnus said with a definite dip of his helm.   
  
Vehicons, at least, were much easier to deal with in the wake of Decepticon defeat than more independent thinkers like Knock Out. They didn't so much care who was in charge so long as they were fueled and treated with respect, the latter of which Optimus Prime provided in greater abundance than Megatron ever did.   
  
“Is this acceptable?” Optimus asked.   
  
Smokescreen rubbed the back of his helm. “To be honest, so long as Knock Out doesn't end up back in the brig, or I start living there, I'm happy.” Relief tentatively wound through his spark.   
  
“It is settled.” Ultra Magnus tapped something into a datapad before handing it over to Smokescreen, indicating he should enter his agreement.  
  
He skimmed the contents but the datapad only described the change in his standing orders. It also reassured him that no punishment was to be given. Phew, crisis averted.   
  
“You should know, Smokescreen, that Knock Out echoed all of your remarks,” Optimus said after the datapad was handed his way and he keyed his own signature. “He tried to protect you.”   
  
Smokescreen's spark fluttered, warmth pulsing outward. “He did?”   
  
Ultra Magnus inclined his helm. “He did.”   
  
“He has changed as much as you have, Smokescreen. It should come as no surprise,” Optimus said and he actually smiled. “That being said, you are free to go.”   
  
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Some extra politeness couldn't hurt. Nor could a respectful salute, so Smokescreen offered both.   
  
He turned to leave, but Magnus' words made him pause.   
  
“Good luck, soldier,” Magnus said. “You are going to need it.”   
  
“Yes, sir. You're certainly right about that.” He tossed another salute and made his escape, before either of them could change their mind. Not that he thought they would but Smokescreen wasn't one to ignore mercy when it was offered.   
  
Outside, Knock Out waited for him. Oh, he looked casual, leaning against the wall with a polishing cloth in his hand. But no mech loitered outside the commander's office just for kicks.   
  
Knock Out straightened as soon as he saw Smokescreen, tucking the cloth into an arm compartment. “What's the verdict?”   
  
Smokescreen's mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “I think we've got their blessing,” he said and shrugged. “As scary as that sounds.”   
  
“But no punishment?”   
  
“No brig time,” Smokescreen confirmed with a grin. “Though from now on, you'll have to report to Bulkhead. Lucky you.”   
  
“I think I'll live,” Knock Out drawled.   
  
Smokescreen laughed and faked wiping sweat from his forehelm. “Now that the inquisition is over, I believe I owe you a rematch.”   
  
“Winner buys the high grade?” Knock Out offered.   
  
Smokescreen leaned close and stole a kiss. “Or we could change the stakes.”   
  
Red optics flared with approval. “I like the way you think.”   
  


***


	2. You Plus Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock Out surprises Smokescreen with an invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a cute little scene that came to me out of nowhere but belongs in this verse. Enjoy!

Smokescreen was in the armory, staring up at the Star Saber, when he realized he was not alone. He knew this field, however, and the announcing touch of it to his own made him grin.   
  
“Were you looking for me?”   
  
“You weren't hard to find,” Knock Out drawled as he stepped up beside Smokescreen. He planted a hand on his hip. “You're predictable.”   
  
Smokescreen shot him a sidelong look. “And you aren't?”   
  
Knock Out rolled his shoulders, setting one tire into a lazy spin. “Darling, I'm only predictable when I want to be. After all, you'd never find me here.”   
  
Well, Knock Out had a point. While he was rather fond of new and exciting weaponry, old artifacts didn't have much appeal. They weren't shiny enough.   
  
“Hah.” Smokescreen turned and gave his partner his full attention. Because when he didn't, Knock Out got pretty tetchy. “Did you want something?”   
  
Knock Out arched a ridge at him. “Oh. I'm sorry. Was I interrupting your regularly scheduled daydream of greatness?”  
  
Smokescreen bit back a wince. Yeah. He'd offended Knock Out somehow. There would be much groveling later.   
  
“Let me rephrase,” Smokescreen said and planted a smile on his face as he spread his arms wide. “Knock Out, you're looking ravishingly shiny today! How can I be of service to you?”   
  
There's a moment where Knock Out stared at him, something in his optics burning like the fires of the Pit before Knock Out whirled on a heelstrut and stalked away.   
  
Yes. Definitely sleeping on the couch tonight, as Miko would call it.   
  
Smokescreen hurried to catch up and had to put on a burst of speed to intercept before Knock Out could get out the door. He held up his arms, knowing Knock Out would stop before he collided with Smokescreen and gained so much as a scratch.   
  
“Seriously,” Smokescreen said. “I'm sorry. What did you want to talk to me about?”   
  
Knock Out huffed a ventilation and crossed his arms. He looked away, tension writ into every line of his armor and Smokescreen got the feeling that this wasn't about Knock Out not getting his due attention. This was about something else.   
  
Smokescreen lowered his hands and stepped closer, letting the edges of their field mingle. True Knock Out's still in this probation or whatever, but none of the Autobots suspected him of anything anymore. Even Ultra Magnus had warmed up to him.   
  
“Did something happen?” Smokescreen asked, now more than a little concerned.   
  
Knock Out rolled his optics. “Ever the Autobot,” he muttered before shifting his attention back toward Smokescreen. “No. Nothing happened. Which is kind of the point.”   
  
Smokescreen blinked and then scratched at his chin. “I don't follow.”   
  
“You. Me. This pitiful excuse for a relationship we have.” Knock Out unfolded his arms to wave theatrically. “We need to go on a date.”   
  
Smokescreen stared at him. It didn't compute. “Date?”   
  
“Don't tell me you haven't heard of one.” Knock Out snorted and folded his arms again, something Smokescreen was beginning to realize was not only defensive, but indicated he was out of his depth.   
  
Smokescreen huffed. “Of course I have. I spent time on Earth!” His door wings flicked aggressively before he reminded himself that half the time, this counted as flirting for Knock Out. “I mean, that we just don't really, you know, do that. Dates I mean.”   
  
Knock Out raised one hand, pointing a clawed finger at Smokescreen's chestplate. “Exactly,” he said, smug. As though he'd proven a point.   
  
Smokescreen waited for him to continue, but silence prevailed. Knock Out stared at him expectantly, and Smokescreen stared back, confusion growing in his spark. He felt like he missed a memo or something.   
  
Then Knock Out abruptly leaned forward, his optics cycling down to narrow and angry crimson slits. “So?” he prompted with his usual impatience.   
  
“So… what?” Smokescreen wondered what half of the conversation he missed.   
  
Knock Out huffed a loud ventilation, blasting a wave of heat against Smokescreen's front. “Are you going to come with me or not?” he demanded, poking Smokescreen's chestplate, right above his Auto-brand.   
  
Oh. That was an invitation? Really? Primus. Smokescreen didn't know if he'd ever understand his no-longer-a-Decepticon partner.   
  
“Of course I will!” Smokescreen smiled and rubbed the back of his helm. “When?”   
  
“After shift.” Knock Out paused again, taking his hand back. “Today.”   
  
Smokescreen nodded, his doorwings flicking with more energy now. Awkward overture aside, excitement prevailed.   
  
“Sounds good!” he said, only to blink and tilt his helm. “Wait. Where are we going?”   
  
Knock Out grinned and spun on a heel-strut. “That's for me to know and you to find out. I'll pick you up after-shift. You'd better be--”   
  
“--shiny and clean, I know.” Smokescreen chuckled. That, at least, was familiar to him. “I know the drill by now.”   
  
He wasn't even that dirty! And truthfully, Knock Out didn't gripe too much if Smokescreen showed up with road grit in his tires. But Smokescreen had to admit he loved the little rev of engine Knock Out made whenever Smokescreen showed up bright and shiny, like new.   
  
That made all the extra primping worth it.   
  
Like that one time Knock Out couldn't keep his claws off Smokescreen or his gears? Yeah. That was a good time.   
  
“I've trained you well,” Knock Out purred. He winked an optic and sashayed out of the room.   
  
Smokescreen chuckled and turned back to staring at the Star Saber, but his daydreams of greatness were now shifting to daydreams of a different sort.   
  
Maybe he should just, um, get started on polishing himself for that date.   
  
Yep. That was a good plan.


End file.
